


Tender Heads and Heavy Hands

by Sidrisa



Series: 1000 Points of Light [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Hair Braiding, Loki - Freeform, Se'risa, The Princess - Freeform, also hair bonding, and are slightly awed, but with hair, impressed, or fascinated by it?, so you know i had to do it, that's literally it - Freeform, this is that, which is A THING for women of color, you know how some fics focus on the one character watching the other shave?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 01:27:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12288324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidrisa/pseuds/Sidrisa
Summary: Set during the events of Power and Magic (Asgard)Spy’s get exactly what they want, exactly what they need, and nothing they expect.My excuse for more domestic fluff ala Food and Wine





	Tender Heads and Heavy Hands

He doesn’t knock, why would he--he owns the place. Of course there is the slightest technicality to that assessment: this is his _Father’s_ house but really, what are his father’s things but his own on a time delay? No. He doesn’t knock. Rather he slips in silently - it’s early enough you should be still abed and he means to surprise.

He moves in the shadows cast by the early sun through the curtains getting close enough to peek through the gap of the cracked door to your bedchamber. He’s pleased, the bed linens are still tousled and wrinkled meaning you’re still in them but...

“Be still.” he hears you say, but muffled, as though filtered through clenched teeth. He toes the door open just slightly, just enough to spy more and he finally sees you. He pauses, heart frozen mid-beat, gaze trapped in the broad stripe of exposed skin travelling down to your navel, the rest of you, the good bits, covered and cinched by the soft beryl colored silk of your morning robe.

“Damn,” he sighs softly.

You sit on the edge of your bed, an amber comb held in your teeth and your hands knuckle deep in a mess of black hair.

Se’risa.

She fidgets, nestled between your knees, looking pained--severely pained, pained enough that her eyes are red.

Loki clenches his teeth. He knows better. This is but simple styling but it looks like she’s taking a beating. He knows too, to the marrow of his bones, that you would find death preferable to harming the girl and yet he still feels this overwhelming urge to intervene.

So of course.

He does.

He kicks the door in like a soldier storming the gates.

“What in the Nine hels!”

Both girls startle. The comb falls from your mouth and clatters to the floor while Se’risa turns her head so fast she snatches the hair in your fingers with a dry, staticky pop.

She yelps.

You yelp in turn and quickly press your hand to the girls stretched and angry scalp hoping the pressure will dull some of the pain. “Oh! I’m sorry ‘Risa.”

You snap your head to him. “What the hel was that for! Don’t you knock!?”

He doesn’t and he glides over the question with his own. “I was only trying to prevent a murder,” He answers glibly. “What’s she done to warrant such punishment, poor thing.”

“I’m braiding her hair.” You shoot back, annoyed, heart still several beats faster than it should be.

He shoots you a sneer anyone else would mistake for contempt. “Are you so cruel a simple style inspires tears?”

“It’s not her fault!” Se’risa stutters, ever and always your defender, especially against him. “Mama always said I was tenderheaded.”

“What?” The words make sense smashed together like that...and yet they don’t.

“Ten.Der.Headed.” You repeat, reaching for the dropped comb. “Sensitive scalp, doesn’t take much to hurt them.”

“Well, you’re a bit heavy handed yourself Princess.” Se’risa grumbles wiping her nose.

You grin at the child in sheepish apology, “Fa’Rey used to say the very same.”

He watches both his girls’ eyes glaze over in memories of the lost. Se’risa of the mother who was killed and you of the cousin who nearly killed you. For a moment, he feels intrusive. He owns this place,  _ in time _ , and yet he suddenly feels unwelcome. Those memories are yours, as is this moment. 

He takes a step back towards the door.

“Where are you going?” You ask. The reverie breaks and the memories, bitter and sweet, are put to rest.

“Nowhere,” he says, reaching for a chair.

**  
  


Your fingers twist and knot and braid upon themselves he wonders how they haven’t all broken or seized into a stiff immovable claw. It’s a kind of magic to watch. From your lighting quick fingertips emerge neat rows of thin braids crossing over each other and back again until distinct shapes emerge. 

From hair into diamonds.

Se’risa has long hair, the ends of her braids hang free of her scalp to brush against her shoulders so you seal the ends with tiny white shell beads.

Se’risa somehow knows your labor is done and she shakes her head, the beads making the softest tinkling sound that delights her.

“Be careful. Shake too hard and you’ll lose those. Those kinds of shells are hard to find up here.” You warn her.

She smiles, nodding harder than she needs to just to hear the sound of the shells again.

“Then go,” You shoo her. “Show Niti.”

The girl’s enthusiasm dims a bit. “Why would I wanna do that?”

“Yes,” Loki asks in support. “Why?”

You suck in a breath preparing what he knows will be an awful lie. He spares you and leans down to whisper something to Se’risa. 

She giggles, makes a face, giggles again, then runs away with a soft playful shriek as Loki closes the door behind her.

“What did you say to her?” You point the comb at him, rising from the bed almost sauntering to where he stands.

“The reason why I cam--”

You steal a kiss and he lets you--after all it’s the reason why he came, to steal several kisses--and maybe more-- from you in the early hours of the day. 

But when he pulls away you gather a handful of his loose black hair. It slides through your fingers till you wind it, making it curl around you.

As he is.

“Where are you going, my prince.” You throw your head to the spot on the floor, where Se’risa sat between your knees.

“You’re next.”

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when David Beckham wore cornrows when he visited Nelson Mandela?  
> WELL THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT WE'RE NOT GONNA DO!  
> #useyourimagination


End file.
